The Reason
by cheride
Summary: A drug dealer, incriminating files, and a locked warehouse. What's McCormick gotten himself into now?


_The Reason- Cheride_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_Rating: PG_

**A/N:** Inspired by Hoobastank's "The Reason", which I can't hear without thinking of Mark. The chorus goes a littlesomething like this:

_I've found a reason for me  
To change who I used to be  
A reason to start over new  
and the reason is You_

Now, whoever could dear old Mark be thinking about?

* * *

Many thanks to past readers and reviewers; your comments are always appreciated. And, for beta help, thanks to the always insightful L.M. Lewis, and to Susan, who may just be Mark's biggest defender. Their assistance is appreciated, and any remaining mistakes are mine.

* * *

"Oh, no; don't look at me like that, kiddo."

"Like what?" Mark McCormick hid his frustration behind a picture of innocence.

Milton Hardcastle shook his head. "Uh-huh, I'm not buying it. I'm tellin' you right now, you are not to go into that warehouse. I can get the information."

"Yeah," McCormick muttered under his breath, "you've been doing a great job so far." After ten days trying to gather enough evidence to shut down a local importer who trafficked in more than island trinkets, the young man was becoming annoyed.

Hardcastle wasn't in a much better frame of mind, and he didn't need any attitude from his hot-headed assistant. He certainly didn't need any of the problems that would come along with that same assistant deciding a couple of Class B felonies would be the easy way to jump-start their current investigation. "Do legal solutions really never cross your mind, or is it just that the criminal ones are so much more familiar to you?"

"Don't go gettin' all high and mighty with me, Judge. I'm pretty sure you keep me around for just this kind of situation. Things get a little tight and you can't make a case—just send in the resident ex-con for a little midnight B&E. It's pretty handy, really."

"I never ask you to commit a crime!" Hardcastle shouted.

"No," McCormick agreed as he turned to stalk out of the room. "But you sure as hell never turn down the evidence." He slammed the door just as he heard Hardcastle's final threat.

"You go anywhere near that warehouse and I'll turn you in myself."

* * *

McCormick sat silently on the sofa in the gatehouse, staring at the small duffel bag sitting at his feet. He knew that he didn't have time for hesitation; if he stayed here now, he'd be back behind bars before morning. But the idea of leaving his home—leaving Hardcastle—was paralyzing.

When he had stomped out of the den earlier this evening, he hadn't really intended to go through with the warehouse burglary. It had even briefly crossed his mind that it just might make the judge angry enough to carry out his ridiculous threat. Either way, it clearly hadn't been the time to cross the man, so he had returned to the gatehouse to fume in private. But it hadn't taken him long to remember his frustration with their current case.

Thomas Molina had been receiving enough heroin over the last few years to blanket Los Angeles County, and he had to be stopped. People—_kids_—were dying every day because of him. One kid in particular, Sean Fitzpatrick, had been on McCormick's mind lately.

He had met Sean at one of Hardcastle's youth group outings, and he had seen more of himself in the young wise guy than he liked to admit. But Sean had been taking advantage of the opportunities presented to him through his counseling group, and he had been slowly turning his life around. Completely kicking his drug habit, though, had been hard for the young man, and he'd had a couple of relapses. Mark and the judge had helped him through the first one, but the second had resulted in an overdose, and, two weeks ago, the friends had attended the teenager's funeral.

As usual, McCormick and Hardcastle had attempted to find a reason for the almost inexplicable tragedy, and their probing had led them to Molina. But the few people who might be able to provide viable testimony were too afraid to do so, and there was a remarkable lack of physical evidence. But one source had hinted at the existence of incriminating papers, and the duo had become intent upon finding them.

Hardcastle had asked for all the proper authorities to get involved, but Molina's attorney had proven adept at blocking their attempts to gain access to the drug dealer's home.

The judge had insisted they not rush into anything; that it would be better to have all the legal arguments before they obtained evidence that would later be ruled inadmissible. Finally, all the arguments for delay had been exhausted and the search had been performed, but they had come up empty.

Hardcastle had decided their informant had probably only been wrong about the location of the evidence, or that Molina had moved it, and that's what had led them to consider the warehouse. Unfortunately, when all the legal arguments began again, the fact that one search had provided no incriminating evidence made it much easier for Molina's attorney to conjure up doubt, and it was looking less and less likely that another search was going to be allowed.

The bureaucracy and inefficiency of the legal system was infuriating to McCormick; could no one understand that people were _dying_ while these insane arguments wore on? That's the reason he had even entertained the idea of trying to retrieve the information in the first place. And it's why he had ultimately left the estate and crept into the warehouse facility, looking for evidence that would finally put Molina behind bars and stop the flow of drugs.

But he had underestimated the security system, and he had almost been caught. He _had_ been identified…he was sure of that. After he had escaped the rent-a-cops at the warehouse, he'd been driving down the interstate, trying to gather his thoughts, when a highway patrolman had flashed his cruiser lights. Instantly terrified, McCormick had slowed the Coyote and pulled to the side of the road. Watching the officer approach the car warily, he'd timed his escape perfectly. He had been long gone before the trooper made it back to the patrol car, but he'd had to drop off the freeway and onto the surface streets to avoid any further cops.

He'd made it back to Gull's Way without any other incidents, and had stashed a handful of file folders in the mailbox before hurrying into the gatehouse. His only thought had been escape, and he had quickly thrown a few essentials into a bag and started toward the door. His hand had been on the knob before his heart caught up with his head.

_What about Hardcastle? _

How was he going to tell him? _Could_ he even tell him? As a judge, Hardcastle couldn't knowingly let him go. But as his friend, could Hardcastle really turn him in? And, whichever way it went, what would happen to the judge because of him? God, it wasn't supposed to work out like this.

Dropping onto the sofa to contemplate his options, McCormick had finally understood that he would never be able to just run out on Hardcastle, even if it meant he would spend the rest of his life in prison. So he would take his chances, tell the judge the truth, and hope the cops wouldn't come.

He looked up suddenly as the gatehouse door swung open forcefully.

"You did it, didn't you, McCormick?" Hardcastle demanded as he stepped into the room. His face hardened as he spied the duffel in front of the sofa. "And now you're gonna make it worse by skipping out on your parole?"

"No," McCormick answered quietly. At Hardcastle's disbelieving snort, he elaborated. "I meant, no, I wasn't going to skip out. Thought about it, but…no."

It did not escape Hardcastle's attention that the young man was pointedly not denying the burglary, and the judge appreciated the honesty. He moved to sit beside his friend.

"Tell me what to do, Judge," McCormick said in the same quiet tone. "What's gonna happen to me?"

"Frank just called; there's an APB out already. He's gonna come pick you up himself."

McCormick nodded wordlessly. After a moment, he tried to explain. "A lot of Seans could die before the legal way worked, you know."

Hardcastle didn't even try to deny it. "I know." He cupped a hand around his chin thoughtfully. "You know, we can probably build a defense around that. Make some kind of case based on the exigency of the circumstances."

McCormick jerked his head around sharply. "Are you crazy? We can't do that!"

"Might be a bit of a stretch," the judge said slowly, "but I think we can make it work."

"No, I meant we _can't_ do that. Illegally obtained evidence won't put Molina behind bars."

"You're missing the point, McCormick," Hardcastle began scornfully. "If the defense is accepted, then it wouldn't be illegal, it would be justified."

"You're the one missing the point, Hardcastle," the younger man returned in the same tone. "People die. Every day. Because of Molina. If we try this defense you're talking about and it doesn't work, what then? Can you promise me that the evidence could still be used against him?"

The judge wanted to lie; McCormick could see it in his eyes. He smiled slightly at the inability. "That's what I thought," he said softly. "So I'll cop to breaking into the warehouse; hell, I'll even say I robbed 'em blind, if that's what it takes, but I won't tell them why I went in, and I won't tell them what I got."

"You're not gonna admit to anything," Hardcastle said harshly. "You're gonna let me figure a way out of this."

"If you can, that's great. But I won't be the reason Molina stays in business."

"McCormick…"

"I'm serious, Judge. Putting him away is the important thing. You find a way to make that work; don't let me take this fall for nothing."

"I don't want you taking this fall at all, McCormick. It's just not worth it." The judge put on his most convincing face, but he had already recognized McCormick's stubborn tone.

"Sean's dead, Judge, and who knows how many other kids, too. Molina's to blame, and stopping him is worth a lot." McCormick paused, then added, "I'm just sorry you're gonna be dragged into this. I never meant for you to get hurt because of me."

Hardcastle shook his head and clapped his hand reassuringly onto the young man's shoulder. "Don't worry about me; I can take care of myself." He thought for a long moment. "I don't want you back inside, McCormick; you don't belong there." He rose suddenly. "I'm gonna head on back to the house." He met McCormick's eyes. "It's probably gonna take Frank about forty-five minutes to get here, you know." He held the gaze for a long moment, wanting to say so much, yet unable to find the words. But in the bright blue eyes that stared back he saw an understanding of everything he couldn't say. Finally, he swallowed the lump that was stuck in his throat. "See ya, kiddo." Then he was gone.

* * *

Hardcastle was at his desk, a vacant expression on his face, when he heard the front door open. He swiveled his head around quickly; it had only been about ten minutes, so it couldn't possibly be Harper. He was surprised—though not a lot—to see McCormick entering the den. "Mark?"

McCormick shrugged fractionally as he crossed the room and plopped into one of the armchairs. "I figure the time when I would've taken you up on that offer ended right about the time you would've made it." He gave a small, sad smile. "But I didn't want to wait alone."

"Me either." Hardcastle matched the smile and didn't bother to point out that they might just have to get used to it.

A moment of silence passed, then, "I'm sorry, Judge. I should've listened to you this time."

"You should've listened to me _every_ time."

McCormick managed a slight grin. "Yeah, probably, but, listen…I really am sorry. I know this is gonna look bad for you. Most people figure if I'm in your custody, then anything I do is your responsibility." He hesitated, knowing he didn't have much time to say the things on his mind, but still unable to simply blurt out his feelings. He made himself continue. "They figure you should've been able to change me." One more breath. "I'm sorry they won't know how much you have."

Hardcastle stared. Was this really going to be the last private conversation they shared? Because he still didn't have any idea what to say to the kid.

"There's nothing you have to say, Judge," Mark finally continued, understanding his friend's discomfort. "I just wanted to spend my last few…well…I just want to stay here until Frank comes, okay? We'll just talk about the Dodgers, or something."

"Okay," Hardcastle conceded, trying not to think about how baseball was just one more thing that wouldn't be the same. But he would do his best to make these last few minutes normal, for Mark's sake. "You know, that Lasorda has a winning combination this year…"

And so they talked; they discussed the current pitching staff, made a short foray into the merits of the designated hitter rule, reminisced about the time Mark scammed Ron Cey; all pointless chatter. But it served to relax them both, as they allowed themselves a moment of laughter and companionship, and tried to believe it wouldn't be their last.

When the front bell rang, the thin charade slipped instantly, and McCormick's easy grin turned into a frozen caricature of its former self. "Judge?" The whispered word revealed a lifetime of fear and uncertainty.

Hardcastle rose slowly. "We'll get through this, kiddo," he said gently, then started for the door.

McCormick was still glued to his seat when the judge re-entered the room, followed by Frank Harper. He raised his head slowly to meet the eyes of the detective. He was touched by the sadness he saw there, but it scared him, too. This was really happening. "Frank."

Harper crossed into the room to stand in front of McCormick's chair. "Mark."

The ex-con stood stiffly, every muscle screaming, _Run!_ He shook his head; he'd had his chance. "Frank, I didn't- -"

"Mark, stop!" The lieutenant's agitated interruption got McCormick's attention instantly. "You can't say anything, Mark, not even to me."

McCormick snapped his mouth closed, and nodded his understanding, trying to wrap his mind around the idea that he wasn't one of the good guys this time. It had been a long time since he'd had to be truly careful around a cop, especially Frank.

"I'm sorry to have to do this," Harper continued, "I just thought it might be easier if it was someone you know."

"Let's just get it over with," McCormick answered dully. He listened silently as Harper read the Miranda warning, and tried not to notice the despair and disappointment painted on Hardcastle's face. He let his thoughts wander, searching for happier times.

"Do you understand each of these rights as they have been explained?" The final question brought McCormick's mind back to the situation at hand.

"I do."

Frank slipped the card back into his pocket, clinging to procedure, but he hesitated as he reached for the handcuffs. Looking between Hardcastle and McCormick, he asked, "Do I need these?"

"He's still here, isn't he?" the judge snapped.

"I'm not gonna run, Frank," McCormick answered, placing a calming hand on Hardcastle's arm.

Harper nodded, accepting the statement as truth. "We have to go," he said after a moment, breaking into the uncomfortable silence.

McCormick had taken only a single step when Hardcastle's words stopped him. "I'll follow behind."

"No!" He faced the jurist with pleading eyes. "You can't come, Judge, please. I can't…you can't…I mean, I don't want you to see all that. We need to do this here."

"It's not like I've never seen you in jail before, McCormick," Hardcastle pointed out gruffly, though he knew already that he would relent. This had to be about whatever was easiest for McCormick.

"I've never been gui—" the ex-con broke off, suddenly mindful of his official escort. He settled for, "It's not the same this time, Judge."

It turned out Hardcastle wasn't very good at relenting; he argued without fully meaning to. "Maybe not; but that's all the more reason I should be there. You need an attorney."

McCormick's answer came before he even registered the judge's comment. "They can process me without an attorney; it's all just--- _what_?"

"You heard me, kiddo. An attorney. You need one; I am one. Works out well." He paused. "Of course, you're right about the initial processing; don't really need me there, and I have some…reading…to do this evening. I can come down first thing tomorrow morning; you just be sure not to answer any questions without me."

McCormick shook his head, torn between his desire to take some comfort from Hardcastle's continued presence, and his need to keep the judge separate from a part of his life that he had hoped never to revisit. How to explain all that? "Judge, that's…I mean it's…well, it's just that…" He breathed deeply, trying to gather his thoughts. This was harder than he would've expected, but he tried again. "In _there_…it's not the me you know."

Unexpectedly, Hardcastle smiled. "Kid, this is me. I know you, no matter what. And there's nothing you need to be ashamed of with me."

For a moment, McCormick thought he might lose his composure completely. In the insanity, he had forgotten how easily the judge could ease even his deepest fears. Not that that was the kind of thing he really wanted to dwell on, now that he was likely to be losing the one constant he'd ever had in his life. But he forced a smile of his own. "Okay; in that case, you're hired. But no pulling strings to start visiting hours at six a.m."

And then he could feel Harper leading him toward the door, as if the detective understood that this moment of comfort would be short-lived. He allowed himself to be directed out into the cool night air, but movement was becoming harder the closer he got to Harper's waiting sedan. As the lieutenant held the door, Mark braced himself in the opening, delaying the inevitable. He glanced back at the officer. "You might need those cuffs after all, Frank," he muttered in a low voice, trying to grin.

"C'mon, Mark," Harper answered gently, "it's not gonna get easier."

With a final look back toward the porch where Hardcastle waited, McCormick climbed into the car and sat silently as Harper slammed the door then walked around and dropped into the driver's side.

Harper started the car and turned to McCormick. "Ready?"

Twisted in his seat to stare out of the window, McCormick barely nodded. Speech would've been out of the question. He didn't move as Harper slid the car into gear and began the drive toward the highway. He simply watched silently as his life faded from view.

* * *

A few miles down the PCH, Harper jerked the wheel suddenly and maneuvered the car off the road into one of the frequent turn-outs, shutting off the engine to give them a little more quiet. McCormick was still staring out the window, and even the unexpected stop wasn't enough to get his attention. But the detective wasn't about to be ignored. "You ran from a cop?"

On some level, McCormick was surprised by the tone; Harper had never spoken to him like that before. But even that startling pain couldn't pierce through his self-imposed isolation.

"And have you even thought about what all this is gonna do to Milt? Or is this all about 'poor Mark', and to hell with him?"

That got through. McCormick twisted around with a glare, but the expression on the lieutenant's face stopped his immediate reply. The deeply etched concern was a stark contrast to the harshness of the words. He spoke softly. "You know better than that, Frank."

Harper shook his head. "What were you thinking? And…you ran from a _cop_?"

McCormick opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering. After a moment, he asked, "Who wants to know, _Lieutenant_?"

The detective winced slightly; he deserved that. "Just me, Mark; off the record. Just don't tell Milt I was questioning you without your lawyer."

McCormick slumped down into the seat just a bit as he felt a tiny fraction of his tension drain away. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this, Frank."

Harper sighed deeply at the bleak tone. "No, I don't suppose it was. You at least got what you needed, I hope?"

After the briefest hesitation, McCormick nodded slightly.

"And did you give it to Milt?" The detective wasn't particularly surprised to see McCormick shake his head. "Plausible deniability, huh?"

"Something like that, I guess."

"So what's your plan, Mark?"

"I'm not sure," McCormick admitted. "I guess it'll depend on what the D.A. files." He shrugged. "I'll talk to the Judge, but maybe I'll just go with an outright 'not guilty'."

"You still gotta explain running from a cop," Harper pointed out.

"You need to let that go," McCormick snapped suddenly. "It's not like I shot the guy, or something." But he was immediately sorry. "It was stupid," he admitted more calmly. "I was scared." A pause. "I _am_ scared. I don't really think there's a way out of this." The young man glanced over to meet the detective's gaze. "Frank, you'll watch over Hardcastle, won't you?"

Harper looked back at him harshly; he didn't like McCormick giving up. "Hardcase is _your_ responsibility. Maybe you'll remember that the next time you feel a felony creeping up on you."

"You and I both know I'm probably out of chances for 'next time'." The tone softened. "So take care of him for me, okay? Make him retire. I don't want him getting hurt."

The detective examined his prisoner a long moment, then turned to restart the engine. "I don't know how you can be so calm about all this," he murmured. "I mean, it's killin' me, and it's not even me."

McCormick managed a small smile. "Blame the judge for that. He's got the strangest way of making me feel like everything will be okay, even when I know it won't." He thought for a second, then added, "But even though it won't really be okay, he's the reason I'll get through it."

Harper nodded as he put the car into gear. "Don't worry; I'll keep an eye on him."

* * *

McCormick concentrated on not shuffling as he walked down the concrete hallway. It would be far too easy to give in to the desolation he felt winding its way into his heart. He had almost forgotten that feeling, but now, as he was ushered toward the cellblock, it had all come crashing back on him.

The interrogation had been more annoying than anything. Frank had spoken with the detectives assigned to the warehouse case and made sure that everything stayed civil. But he hadn't been able to do anything about their overbearing attitudes, which had only gotten worse when McCormick stuck to Hardcastle's instructions and refused to answer questions without his attorney present. At first, he had thought they might be inclined to ignore his Miranda protection—sometimes cops could be _so_ cavalier with the law—but saner heads had prevailed, and the questioning had stopped. But they had left him handcuffed in a straight-backed chair at one end of the small interrogation room while they sat at the other, forcing him to listen as they engaged in 'private' conversation systematically designed to piss him off. They had only gotten close to success once, with an off-hand comment about Hardcastle's probable involvement in the crime, but he had forced himself to let it pass. Finally, after almost three hours, they had given up for the night. _Probably shift change_, McCormick thought, but he was grateful they were finally going to send him to a cell where he could at least get some sleep.

A uniformed officer had escorted him from one end of the complex to the other to deposit him at the county jail section, where he had been turned over to a correctional officer who had instantly flashed a grin of recognition. "Hey, Skid, I didn't expect to see you back here again."

"That was the plan, Nick," McCormick had replied. "Just didn't quite work out that way."

"Old Hardcase finally get tired of having you around?" the officer quipped as he signed the paperwork then pulled McCormick into the intake room.

"Not exactly." McCormick had wanted to hold up his end of the mindless prattle, but the small white room had sent a chill down his spine, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else.

Nick had filled out a couple sheets of paper, then glanced up at his new prisoner. "You know the drill, Skid."

Wishing desperately that he did not, McCormick had simply nodded, and begun removing his clothes. The only good thing was that he would be spared the cavity search for a while; they knew him here in county lock-up, and they were rarely so thorough.

Now, dressed in the county issued denim, he walked along with Nick, trying not to shuffle. It was late, so most of the inmates were asleep, but McCormick could hear some of them tossing about in their bunks or talking quietly with their cellmate. He made a quick wish that whoever he ended up with would be the quiet type; he didn't feel like making conversation.

Nick stole a quick look at the disheartened man walking at his side and almost seemed to read his mind. "Hey, Skid," he whispered confidentially, "you want a private room?"

For the first time in what seemed like days, McCormick felt a genuine smile forming. "That would be great."

* * *

"Hey, Skid; wake up! Ready for exit."

Mark sat up quickly, his body reacting to the words more quickly than his brain. He had dropped down off the cot and stood waiting for the bars to open before he fully understood what was happening. "Exit?" he mumbled thickly. He glanced at the friendly officer questioningly. "Nick, I just got here; where'm I goin' now?"

The guard smiled. "You've been asleep for a few hours, Skid. Anyway, your lawyer's here to see you."

McCormick rubbed at his eyes as he was directed back down the quiet hallway and toward one of the private consultation rooms. "I told him not to do that," he muttered to himself. "We're gonna have to renegotiate his fee."

Nick chuckled as he opened the door. "Getting good help is a bitch, huh?" Allowing McCormick to pass into the room, he glanced in at Hardcastle. "Just buzz when you're ready, Sir."

Yawning, McCormick slouched into the chair across the table from the judge. "What time is it?"

"I don't know," Hardcastle replied without bothering to check, "three, three-thirty maybe. I didn't want to give you time to miss me."

_Too late for that_, McCormick thought. "So what's up?"

"Did you answer any questions?" Hardcastle countered.

McCormick shook his head. "I wasn't very popular with the detectives, though. They're probably not gonna be so understanding tomorrow."

"I don't think we're gonna make 'em wait," the judge answered with a small grin. He hurried on before McCormick could start asking questions. "We didn't really take the time to talk about the stuff in the files. Did you take a look at it?"

The ex-con shrugged. "Yeah, sure, a little bit."

Hardcastle's grin spread. McCormick was a natural born con artist; details were his life. If the kid had looked at the pertinent information, the judge had no doubt that he had remembered it, and that was going to be critical. "So what'd you see?"

McCormick looked across the table uncertainly. "Whaddaya mean? It's the evidence to put Molina in prison." His eyes narrowed. "Didn't _you_ look at it?"

"Of course I looked at it," Hardcastle barked. "And don't take that tone with me, kiddo. I need to know what you saw. Specifically."

Mark straightened slightly, his eyebrows rising querulously. "Are you overly bossy tonight because I'm back in jail?" he asked innocently, "Or just because you're tired and cranky?"

The judge smiled at the rebuke. After the way McCormick had acted during the arrest, he'd been a little bit afraid the young man was pulling away completely, giving up; he was glad to see that wasn't the case. "Maybe I'm tired and cranky _because_ you're back in jail," he suggested.

"That could do it," McCormick chuckled. "Okay, the files. Let's see…there were some financial transaction records, suppliers, customers, that sort of thing. There were some pictures of some kind of a small time buy—looked like he was probably using some of them to blackmail someone else. You'd think he would've gotten rid of the ones that incriminated him. Schedules of deliveries around town and his runners' names, and schedules of his major shipments. Personnel records for the actual import company…is any of this what you're looking for?"

"Do you remember any details?"

"Probably. But, Judge, what do you want to know?"

"What can you tell me about his shipments?"

McCormick thought for a moment. "He likes to use pier 17. For obvious reasons, a lot of his shipments arrive late at night or early in the morning. The cargo is usually delivered from a Bahamian port." He paused, then added, "I assumed you would see all of this first-hand tomorrow. Or today. However you want to look at it. Anyway, there's a delivery scheduled at six-thirty, and I doubt if he has time to cancel it or re-route it. Even if he's a no-show, you should be able to get the shipment and the couriers. Someone could be persuaded to testify."

Hardcastle shook his head with a slight grin. "For such a smooth operator, McCormick, you sure don't seem to know much about working the system."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, you already hold the key to your freedom, kiddo. We just gotta get the right people down here to unlock the door."

"I'm too tired for riddles, Judge," McCormick complained. "Could you just spell it out for me?"

"McCormick, you have material information that could be used to prevent a future crime—the successful delivery of an incoming shipment of heroin. So, in the most time-honored tradition of criminal prosecution, we are going to cut a deal."

The young man just stared at the toothy grin across from him. "You've lost it," he finally said. "I don't _have_ information, I _obtained_ information. Which I gave to you so you can arrest the bad guys and stop the drugs. I've done my part."

"I hope it's only lack of sleep that's making you so dense, kiddo. Or maybe you're just in shock from being locked up again. But you have to know that any D.A. in this county would trade your measly burglary for such a major drug bust. No one has to know you would've told 'em all about it anyway." Hardcastle watched as the realization slowly sank in for his young friend. He grinned again. "You'll be off the hook in no time."

But McCormick couldn't believe it would be so easy. "But what about all the other evidence? Will we still be able to use it?"

"The documents?" Hardcastle clarified. "Probably not. But we won't have to. Tomorrow's delivery alone should be enough to get Molina. But if not, we have the names of his local runners and customers; we'll find someone who will testify. It'll work out, kiddo. He's going down."

"And it's legal for me to trade this information for my own freedom?"

Hardcastle rolled his eyes. "It's a hell of a lot more legal than the way you got it in the first place. Anyway, the prosecutors make deals with guilty suspects all the time, but in your case it breaks down pretty simply. You're a civilian, so no fourth amendment crisis to handle from you. You have knowledge of ongoing criminal activities which are a direct and immediate threat to the public interest, whereas your own criminal activity has been limited to crime against property, with little or no impact to public safety. Honestly, the D.A. will _thank_ you for making the deal." The judge paused momentarily and looked at McCormick closely. "Besides, you've been working with me for a while now; people know you, and they know what you're capable of. No one wants you to go to jail, kiddo."

McCormick smiled suddenly, feeling a weight lifting. "So this is the way you pull strings, huh, Judge?"

"You know I don't pull strings, kid." The judge winked at him, keeping the rest of his thoughts to himself. _But if ever there was a reason…_

* * *

The deal had been made in record time. _Every once in a while,_ McCormick thought, _it's pretty handy having the old donkey around._ The catching D.A. hadn't been all that happy to be dragged down to the station in the middle of the night, but he had quickly reversed his opinion, granting Mark immunity in exchange for information. The ex-con had rattled off every detail he could remember about the shipment, and a large contingency of officers—city, state, and federal—had been dispatched to the waterfront. Now all McCormick had to do was wait for someone to return and tell him just what the hell had happened.

He stopped his nervous pacing. "Nick?" McCormick grabbed the bars and peered through one of the openings.

The officer was leaned casually against the other side of the bars, and he grinned. "Skid, it's only been about five minutes since the last time you asked." But he glanced at his watch anyway. "Five-forty."

McCormick nodded and resumed prowling his cell. He had known they wouldn't release him until his information had been proven correct, but this waiting was almost worse than before.

"I gotta make the rounds again," the officer said after another few minutes. He glanced back into the cell. "You really should just try to get some sleep. A coupla hours ago you were beat."

"Hah! You come in here and think about how getting out is completely beyond your control; tell me how good you're gonna sleep then."

"Good point," Nick replied lightly as he started away. "But that's what you get for not sticking to your plan."

McCormick grinned, appreciating the distraction, then turned back to his pacing.

* * *

"You're sure it's over?" McCormick asked as he signed for his possessions.

"It's over, kiddo," Hardcastle assured him, not even pointing out that he'd already answered that question half a dozen times. "Like we guessed, Molina decided not to show, but I doubt if he counted on his number one lieutenant agreeing to sell him out. Seems he wasn't too happy about his boss sending him in to be the patsy." He grinned. "He's talking a mile a minute, and I've never seen such a happy D.A. There'll probably be a warrant issued before the day's over."

The young man grinned as he allowed the judge to steer him toward the exit. "Glad to hear it. I'll be sure to send Molina a housewarming gift when he gets settled in."

They had completed the short walk to the Corvette before Hardcastle spoke again. He gazed across the car sincerely. "We cut this one pretty close, kiddo."

McCormick nodded slowly. "But if you're gonna lecture me, Judge, I wouldn't mind a nap first."

"No lecture, kiddo. All things considered, I think you did pretty well. It would've been easy to ignore the problem, easy to just let things go. And then later, it would've been easy to leave. You didn't do any of that."

"So you're not mad about the warehouse?"

"I didn't say that," the judge countered quickly.

"No," McCormick grinned wryly, "I guess you didn't."

"I know you had your reasons," Hardcastle continued, "and maybe they were even _good_ reasons, but…" he broke off, pulling a hand across his face; it had been a long night.

McCormick examined his best friend closely, surprised by the fear still hiding behind the exhaustion and relief. _He doesn't know how to protect me from myself._

Hardcastle let his eyes lock onto McCormick's and finally continued, "But you gotta start finding reasons to stay on this side of the law." _Because this was way too close._

McCormick felt a wave of guilt flow over him; he really hadn't intended to cause Hardcastle any trouble. And Harper had been right about one thing: the judge was his responsibility. _Who knew this custody deal would end up a two way street?_ He smiled to himself, knowing that he already had the only reason he needed. "I'll be more careful," he promised.

Hardcastle frowned slightly as he watched the young man climb into the car. "I was sorta hoping for 'it'll never happen again'," he answered, sliding in behind the wheel.

"One step at a time, Hardcase, one step at a time." McCormick just grinned as the jurist tried to keep up the stern expression. He knew the judge would accept the answer, just as surely as Hardcastle knew it wasn't really the whole answer anyway.

Mark slouched back into the seat as the 'Vette pulled into traffic, knowing that he would always try to do better, and Hardcastle would always forgive the small transgressions. They were never going to completely agree on the topic, anyway, but he figured they could live with their differences. His grin spread as he thought that they both put up with a lot.

Then again, they had their reasons.


End file.
